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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30059271">A N : E X O T I C ' s : C U L T I V A T I O N</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esasel/pseuds/Esasel'>Esasel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thorns of Meridian [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>W.I.T.C.H.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domination, Dubious Consent, First Meetings, Flowers, Horror, Illusions, M/M, Magic, Meridian, Metamoor, Mind Reading, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phobos' Garden, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Seduction, Self-alteration, Submission, Trials, Whisperers, all the flowers, but very subtle horror, drug induced lust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:07:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30059271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esasel/pseuds/Esasel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>.<br/><br/>A reimagined tale of how Prince Phobos and Lord Cedric met.<br/><br/>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cedric/Phobos Escanor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thorns of Meridian [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211402</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A N : E X O T I C ' s : C U L T I V A T I O N</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is sacrilegous for a common metamooren creature to even dream becoming one of the fabled blossom born Whisperers of the Royal House of Meridian. It's only been his deepest wish since lithe little snake called Cedric overheard the awe inspiring stories, chewing on a stolen dried fig or, most times, his own empty hand in the streets that were his orphan home. He knows it is infamous, but lying to the Prince at direct inquiry would be worse – and fairly dangerous, no matter Cedric's talent to turn and turn his words with the split ends of his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Blessed with nothing but a rough gift for the magical arts he travelled to the metropolis not in his serpent body, grown tall into adulthood now, but for his weakness vanity in his own re-creation of the implicit beauty of the Whisperers - no matter if he still fails halfway through the image in that he always remains a tad too tall and the tone of his skin turns rosy pale instead of earthly whenever he wills himself to melt into a more noble form than what bulk nature did decide be his. More human than botanical he looks like this, but aside from that annoying imperfection Cedric could not have known his greater mistake: No one has seen the now solely regnant Prince in person for years, and Cedric himself, just an aspiring pipsqueak from the dumps snaking his way up the ranks, he's clearly never seen Royalty before at all. Heavens, he didn't have a clue, but blasphemously through his illusion work Cedric managed to match his wishful appearance almost to that of Prince Phobos himself.</p><p>Would this be why he has been called to court anyway? Surely, the Whisperers would have the Prince informed of such insolence wittlessly walking the Palace halls, hungry for royal attention. Cedric did not intent for it to come to him as a bad joke. But here he is, alas, and having learned none of life's trickier lessons yet.</p><p>The guards that brought him are not allowed to follow through the final entrance; it leads to the Whisperers domain, and Prince Phobos is the safest and at home among them only. The gate is tall, overgrown with heavy, fleshy blossoms that lure the fingers touch them. Cedric dares not, albeit he fiercely longs that one sweet day he could. The way ahead wooes him into the shades he only ever dreamed of walking. He enters with the relish of a man that smells his prize.</p><p>In the garden, the cool and lush garden saturated with such oily greens of foliage so wicked as to hold against a knife, unblinking eyes from the countless in-betweens of vines and leaves and blossoms rare bore into Cedric as he wanders silently the path meandering him, he assumes, to his destination. Still but a lower servant, he must not allow himself to look at his so envied Whisperers directly, but the sensation crawling on his false skin tells him that they stare: He is considered and is seen, maybe through every velvet veil of his illusions. As the stealth of a southern night the blossom born move around his every step, and they sway, sway. Their limbs make sounds like roots that move though they should never have been able to.</p><p>It's then that Cedric swallows thickly for the first time, his mouth, though swimming in aromas of the richest scents, tasting as foul as the beginning of a fear.</p><p>Do they have hearts in them, and blood, the Whisperers? Cedric wonders all of a sudden, and never once in his young years he did before. If ever he was to become a sibling to such life-remote appearing entities, would life still pulse throughout his limbs or leave him vacant? And how, then, would he live?</p><p>His heart does a leap and flutters harder in his chest. A shiver washes down his spine, but in this terror even he is still enticed.</p><p>He comes to a clearing that is roofed by a cathedral of trees, holding shadow aloft between their fingers. The air is humid, sweet, and he can only see due to a glow touching down on everything, a dew-like phenomenon he knows the source not of. Not too far away he hears water dripping which he cannot see. Under his boots the earth is juicy and sprouts clouds of mosses, gathering into a blanket in the center of the place. It strikes Cedric solemn enough that he decides, if anywhere, here he should wait. His hands join formally in front of his crotch, his head bows low from his squared shoulders, entertaining the aesthetic of a servant, and, still none the wiser, his thoughts curl curiously around what this dubious summons might gain him in the end.</p><p>Then, water splashes languidly. A surface of it is disturbed, not far, just where the dripping might have been before. Cedric starts to attention at once with eagerness tingling through his spine as would the tail of a rattle snake.</p><p>It sounds like someone might emerge from a large bath. For a moment, Cendric holds his breath – listening intently – and indeed, the rustling of fabric, the crooning of voices that are more breath than voice, then pairs of feet walking the wild, soft earth almost without sound.</p><p>Closer.</p><p>He knows it then: The Prince has come among a group of intimates, flower people, small and sly. They take off into the distance around the clearing, sounding weightless as a wind. But Phobos not. He walks on soles of utter consequence, it seems, gently as a menace only could, to stand himself abreast a man too low of worth to meet his eye.</p><p>Cedric, hungry for him anyway, searches for his feet instead. And he does find them.</p><p>Only so he realizes his own impertinence. The sight is a punch to the gut, of the Prince's naked toes that tread into his view on the mosses on the earth. Phobos' dove blue robe slides past his step and reveals the form, the colour, of <em>almost</em> a human foot, then two. Too regal though, too kingly to be mortal. It is an unexpected violence, this loveliness. Cedric knows not what he feels but vertigo, but he knows he should have fallen to these feet. Were he only a fraction more an honest slave of heart, he would have righted his mistake and thrown himself down on his face, unmasked and scaled, pleading forgiveness. As is his nature, he can not. Cedric remains upright, and he remains adorned in his illusion. The blood, alas, creeps high into his cheeks from the procacity he is commiting, yet more so still from his fatal desire to be kindred with a better breed than his.</p><p>The Prince and him, they look <em>alike</em>.</p><p>Phobos himself, albeit, with rivulets of glory pearling from his presence, he reeks of maw deep power. Such a person is he, so Cedric's sorcerous instincts can taste on the air, who never learned the hole of hunger in his belly, the void of helplessnes in too young hands. Sure as moon hunts sun hunts moon again, Phobos possessed with the first infant cry that spilt from his throat pure potency in little fists as jaws formed to seize the world, all worlds beyond. Cedric's mouth is hot with envy and admiration: If only he could have an ounce of this true power, he would swap their places in half a heart's beat and be <em>him</em>, eternal, never himself again.</p><p>That his already rotten soul should be adoring someone so gives him troubles breathing. He hasn't even once looked up.</p><p>Then Phobos hums, the sound of him a purr and prance.</p><p>"Look at your Prince and fear not, for he will smile at you."</p><p>Cedric does as he is bidden. Starving never taught him patience, and how could he have refused?</p><p>The Prince is wonderful and horrid, standing as a lily proud. He's all that Cedric sensed and more, more still. As much a monument the youthful god of all that he yet will achieve. With the sheen of his smile, the lustre of his gaze, Phobos blinds. The nightmarish length of his hair, hundreds and hundred cords as rays of devious light worming their ways through the scenery, has him connected to the deepest innards of the garden. His are the roots and vines and blooms and all the stares between because all life belongs to <em>him</em>, nothing lives not for him, and in a moment's time that makes too perfect sense to Cedric.</p><p>For a moment it will look as though blood were pouring down Phobos' chin, the crimson bearded chin resembling that of an animal of prey while it is eating.</p><p>The Prince is smiling, and in truth, in the whole impact that is him, Cedric does fears for his life. Only it belongs to Phobos anyway, or – dare a mindless thought even pronounce it - if not yet, it will be taken.</p><p>Cedric swallows.</p><p>The Whisperers articulate a sudden movement and a gasping sound that frills throughout the vicious thicket all around. A squall of knowledge rattles them. Oh they do <em>know</em>, the Whisperers, and Phobos knows, parasite in their collective. The corners of the Prince's mouth are twitching just a fractions, upwards, because, fool that he is, Cedric has <em>thought</em>.</p>
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